Perfect Day

children get these allergies?’ Frances asks Nell.
    ‘Not really. They know the disposition to be allergic is genetic, but nobody knows why so many people have suddenly become so allergic to peanuts,’ Nell says.
    ‘Do you think that the genes came from you or from Alexander?’
    ‘I think probably Alexander. He had asthma as a child.’
    ‘Another reason not to use his sperm then,’ says Frances .
    ‘Do you mind if we talk about something else?’ says Nell.
    ‘What’s sperm?’ Lucy asks.
    Nell’s saved from having to answer because their meals arrive.
    ‘Enjoy your fish and chips,’ the woman says. She smells of frying and the warm, slightly sweet body odour that fat people sometimes have. She smiles sympathetically at Nell who half feels like giving her a hug. She’s noticed recently that she has started to feel something almost like love for people who show kindness to Lucy.
    Nell pierces the batter and steam rises from Lucy’s piece of fish. ‘Freshly cooked,’ Nell says, encouragingly, ‘delicious!’
    ‘It’s too hot,’ says Lucy.
    ‘Well, dip it in this.’
    Nell peels the top off a miniature carton of ketchup. Then she pops the straw through the top of her apple juice carton.
    Frances is shaking vinegar all over her meal.
    ‘What’s that?’ Lucy asks.
    ‘It’s vinegar. Very sour.’
    ‘Can I have some?’
    ‘You can, but just have a little bit on one chip and see if you like it.’
    Lucy obediently drops one drop on a chip.
    ‘ Yummaroney !’ she says, taking a minuscule bite, but she doesn’t eat the rest of the chip.
    ‘Do you have fish and chips much?’ Nell asks Frances .
    It’s a completely banal question, but she can’t think of anything else to say to her because she’s angry about Frances ’s mocking remarks about allergies. It’s bad enough having to ask all the time, without people thinking that you’re being silly.
    ‘Not often enough. I always forget how much I like it,’ Frances says with her mouth full. ‘When you live by the sea, you hardly ever do the things you’re meant to do at the seaside. Which is why this is so nice,’ she says, leaning across the table and putting her hand over Nell’s. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘It must be very stressful living in a state of potential crisis all the time.’
    Typically, Frances has come up with exactly the right words to describe what it’s like to have a child with a life-threatening condition. Frances is so intelligent, it’s always a reaffirming experience to talk to her.
    ‘It is,’ says Nell, feeling instantly more cheerful.
    ‘Do you have supportive friends? I mean other parents?’ Frances asks.
    ‘One or two. Actually, nobody understands unless they’ve got a child like it themselves. Either they think you’re exaggerating, or they look at you with hard eyes when you try to talk about it, as if you’re carrying bad luck and they don’t want it to rub off on them.’
    ‘Like illness is infectious, even just talking about it?’
    ‘Exactly! Everyone secretly wants to think that it’s your fault somehow — it’s to do with genetics, or it’s because you’re a bad mother. If it’s your fault, you see, then it won’t happen to them and their children.’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ says Frances , giving her hand a squeeze.
    ‘I’m sorry too,’ says Lucy, blithely, not wanting to be left out.
    Nell watches the precarious journey of a flake of fish from Lucy’s plate to mouth. The fork is much larger than Lucy is used to.
    ‘Now another chip,’ Nell says, trying to keep the momentum going. Lucy tends to dawdle after the first few mouthfuls and then her appetite goes before she’s eaten anything like enough calories.
    Nell catches her own reflection in the window, watching Lucy, with her own mouth open in a state of suspended animation as the child brings another forkful to her mouth. She looks away, wondering whether she is over-protective. She must at least pretend to be more relaxed.
    Nell takes a sip of wine. It’s surprisingly cold and dry, and the crispness is a good contrast to the fattiness of the food. She takes another longer gulp, and feels the alcohol seeping pleasantly through her body. It is a while since she’s had a drink, and the effect is immediate and rather pleasant. She turns the bottle round to read the label. Frascati . It goes well with fish. She splashes a little more into her glass.
    ‘I’m not driving for ages, am I?’ she says, permitting herself the